Like others, I tend to repeat stories, but I figure it’s okay if they’re good ones. Let me quote a story I told in a September 2019 review:
In the summer of 2012, I was driving from Ann Arbor, Michigan—Ypsilanti, to be precise—to Detroit Metro Airport (a short trip). I was listening to the CBC, i.e., Canadian radio. On the air was a piano recital, devoted to Chopin. The playing was arresting: smart, clean, and beautiful. Who was the pianist? I was hoping I could find out before reaching the airport.
It turned out to be someone unknown to me: Jan Lisiecki, a Canadian of Polish parentage. (This could explain the taste for Chopin.) And he was seventeen years old.
Today, he is twenty-eight (twenty-nine before the month is out). He played a recital in Carnegie Hall last night. He’s tall and thin with a crop of curly blondish hair. He sometimes rises from the piano bench—while playing, I mean—for emphasis. He is a confident fellow, with much to be confident about.
On the second half of his program, he played the Chopin Preludes, Op. 28—all twenty-four of them. He began his program with a Chopin prelude, too: the one in D flat, Op. 28, No. 15, nicknamed the “Raindrop.” So, he played it twice.
What gave?
The first half of his program comprised sixteen preludes, by various composers. So this was an all-prelude evening. And, for a reason known to him, he wanted to start with the “Raindrop.” He played the sixteen preludes in an order of his choosing. There must have been a method to his madness. The order was not chronological. In the third position, for example, was Bach’s prelude in C major from Book 1 of The Well-Tempered Clavier—and this prelude is arguably the father of all preludes.
Lisiecki played the sixteen first-half preludes one after the other, with no break—as if they belonged to one another. As if they were a string. I was wondering why the recital was starting late: at 8:15. There was no opportunity for late seating. The hall must have wanted to give stragglers a break.
Obviously, the idea of preludes means a lot to Mr. Lisiecki. For the evening’s program booklet, he had written an eloquent, smart, charming note on the subject. But listen: the designation “prelude” is kind of random. You could call each one of those sixteen pieces something else and no one would be the wiser. No one would say, “Hey, wait a minute: that sounds like a prelude!”
But people need their musicological crutches, apparently. What we heard on the first half of the program was a slew of great or good piano pieces. You can call them a ham sandwich. It makes no difference to me.
Besides Chopin and Bach, Lisiecki’s composers were Rachmaninoff, Messiaen, and two Poles (or two other Poles, I should say, bearing Chopin in mind): Szymanowski and Górecki. Lisiecki played selections from each man’s Op. 1. (From Szymanowski’s and Górecki’s, I mean.) It was a pleasure to hear those pieces, so seldom heard.
How did the young man play? I will not go through the preludes one by one, you’ll be relieved to know. I will jot some generalities. Lisiecki is a mature pianist, full of poise. He knows his own mind. His playing is basically free of doubt. He is straightforward, attentive, and alert.
I have my criticisms, as anyone would (including the pianist himself). Some passages could have been crisper. Other passages could have been less “vertical,” in my judgment—glassier. The Messiaen pieces could have been more French.
But these are cavils, and the important thing to say is that Jan Lisiecki is a pianist with excellent fingers and a wonderful musical heart.
In the spirit of repeating myself, I will say what I often say when writing about the Chopin Preludes—or what I often quote. The American music critic Henry Finck (1854–1926) said, “If all piano music in the world were to be destroyed, excepting one collection, my vote should be cast for Chopin’s Preludes.”
Now, these preludes really do go together (although many can stand alone). While they are a set, each prelude has its own character. Jan Lisiecki was able to bring out the character of each one. He sometimes plays as if talking to you. (I should add that Chopin composes the same way.)
The C-sharp–minor prelude has rapid downward passagework in the right hand. From Lisiecki, this was ghostly, almost shiver-making. The “Raindrop,” let me say, went better the second time (although it had gone plenty well the first time). (I was afraid he’d play this piece a third time, as an encore.) The F-major prelude was lapping, rippling. And the concluding prelude, in D minor, was fantastically intense.
Lisiecki did justice to Op. 28 (these preludes)—an achievement.
An additional prelude or five for an encore? He played one—one piece, but not a prelude. First, let me quote from a review of mine last week:
It’s curious: Musicians spend their lives communicating sounds to an audience. And almost none of them can announce an encore clearly and audibly. If they’re not going to do it right, they should forgo an announcement and simply play.
(You know who did it right? Artur Rubinstein. He did practically everything right.)
Jan Lisiecki was loud and clear—for which he should win some kind of award. And he was commendable in his encore: Schumann’s Romance in F sharp. This is a gentle piece, songful. I thought Lisiecki would follow up with something a little flashier. But that was it.
In young pianists, we are swimming. I have recently reviewed Bruce Liu, Yunchan Lim, Seong-Jin Cho, and still others. Alexander Malofeev is coming next week. We will never run out of young instrumentalists. Never. Will there be audiences for them? Let’s worry about that another time.
A Message from the Editors
Support our crucial work and join us in strengthening the bonds of civilization.
Your donation sustains our efforts to inspire joyous rediscoveries.
Source: newcriterion.com
